Chapter 238: Chrome In the Smoke (1)
The rain outside had slowed to a drizzle.
The streets of Victoria glistened under the pale glow of gas lamps.
Puddles breaking with each passing carriage wheel.
Inside a narrow bar tucked between a bakery and a pawnshop, the air was thick with pipe smoke, spilled ale, and the low hum of men’s laughter.
*Clink.
Mugs struck wood as the bartender slid another round across the counter.
The fire crackled at the far wall, and the warmth of it battled against the damp cold that always seemed to cling to Victoria at night.
At one corner table sat six men.
A mix of old and middle-aged.
They had come not just for drink but for the nightly sport of tearing politics to pieces.
One old man with a crooked back and a beard yellowed from smoke slammed his mug down.
"I tell you, the Parliament is useless!"
The table erupted.
"Ha! Useless is too kind a word!"
Shouted a man with thinning gray hair.
"They spent three whole days debating lamp colors! Lamp colors! Yellow or white, as if it will stop the rats in the streets!"
The men burst into laughter.
*Clatter
Went the dice as one man dropped them mid-roll from laughing too hard.
A younger fellow nearly spilled his drink, choking as he repeated the words...
"Lamp colors!"
The bartender wiped his counter again and shook his head.
"Keep it down, you drunks."
He said, though his grin betrayed him.
"Next they’ll argue if water should be wet!"
A round-bellied man called out.
That broke them completely.
The table shook as fists slammed down and mugs knocked together.
"Water should be wet!
By the Saints!"
Cried another, tears in his eyes from laughter.
The men had drunk a little more and the talk shifted again.
One of the older men leaned back with a smirk.
"You fellows heard the revolutionary news with the Crimson Workshop?"
He asked, his voice heavy with ale.
Another man scratched his beard.
"Crimson Workshop?
The tinkerers?
The ones who build strange machines?"
"Aye," the first man said, nodding.
"They are the ones who made those new blimps.
Floating in the air like big balloons.
They say it uses steam, not coal."
Thud went a mug on the table as one of them laughed.
"Steam? Bah.
We already have trains that eat coal and spit smoke.
Why waste coin on balloons in the sky?"
The man across from him raised a finger, grinning.
"Not balloons, friend.
Blimps.
Strong frames, leather skin, steam engines inside.
They can carry weight, men, even goods.
Faster than trains, no rails needed."
The room went quiet for a moment as the thought sank in.
The youngest among them whistled.
Wheeeew
"That would change everything.
No tracks, no limits.
Fly over rivers, mountains, even walls."
Another man frowned and rubbed his chin.
"But dangerous.
A little spark and the whole thing could burst.
Steam and fire in the sky.
One mistake and everyone falls."
"Still..."
The first man said, his eyes wide now,
"...if Crimson Workshop makes it work, imagine the power.
Nations fighting in the air, not on the ground.
Merchants flying their goods across the continent.
The rich buying their own blimps just to show wealth."
The laughter came again, Ha ha ha ha, but softer this time.
"They say Crimson Workshop already sold two to the merchants of the East. "
Another man muttered.
"And one to a Duke in Victoria.
If true, then the world is about to change faster than our mugs empty tonight."
The jokes carried on, every word about politics heavier than wine yet sweeter than honey when shared among men who had no power except their tongues.
But soon, the mood shifted.
The crooked old man leaned forward, lowering his voice as if the smoke itself might carry his words to the wrong ears.
"Tell me, have any of you heard about the Chrome Hearts?"
The laughter faltered.
The dice stilled.
The mugs paused midair.
The words settled over the table like dust.
A scarred man, middle-aged with a long mark running down his cheek, snorted.
"Chrome Hearts?
A band of criminals, that’s all.
Young people wearing masks, running about causing trouble."
Another man shook his head.
"No, no.
They’re no common thieves.
They strike at the syndicates.
The smugglers.
The scum.
Just last week, the dock warehouse was raided.
All the smugglers tied up like pigs, left for the guards.
Not a single civilian touched.
You call that criminal?"
The gray-haired man leaned closer.
"I saw them.
Well, not their faces.
Their masks.
Opera masks, like the rich folk wear.
Only the eyes covered.
Black and silver.
Strange to see men dressed plain but moving like soldiers."
The scarred man frowned.
"And that makes them heroes? No.
They break law.
They do not bow to Parliament or Church.
That makes them criminals."
*Clink!
Mugs touched the table again, slower this time.
The bent old man sipped his wine.
"I’ll tell you why they are criminals.
Because they wear masks.
Only liars and thieves hide their faces."
That brought groans from the table.
One man grinned.
"The nobles wear masks every day.
They just call them smiles."
The roar of laughter shook the bar again.
Bang!
Went a chair as one man nearly toppled backward from laughing so hard.
Even the bartender chuckled.
But the bent old man was not finished.
He leaned forward again, his voice grave.
"No, listen.
The shocking part is not the raids or the masks.
It is the leader."
He let the pause hang heavy, savoring it.
"The leader of Chrome Hearts is only Sixteen years old."
"Sixteen?"
The scarred man nearly spat his drink.
"You jest."
"I do not jest..."
Said the old man firmly.
"...the guards whisper it.
The syndicate curses it.
A boy leads them.
A boy called Machiavelli."
Silence.
The fire crackled.
Pop!
The rain tapped against the window.
"A boy?"
Muttered the gray-haired man.
"A boy commanding men in masks? Impossible."
"Maybe he is not a boy."
Another man said nervously.
"Maybe he is a ghost."
"Or a puppet," said the scarred man.
"Perhaps some noble pulls his strings."
"Or cursed," said another.
"A thing the Church should have burned long ago."
The old man slammed his mug down.
"No! He is real.
You can tell by the way his men move.
One mind. One body.
No common gang has such discipline.
That is the mark of a true leader.
Sixteen or sixty, the boy Machiavelli commands them."
The gray-haired man leaned back and burst into laughter.
"If it is true, then the nobles should hang their heads in shame.
Imagine, all their power, all their titles, yet a boy shakes their city."
The table roared again, but this time the laughter was edged with unease.
"Do not joke."
The old man warned.
"These Chrome Hearts may shake more than the city.
They may shake the Parliament.
They may shake the Church.
They may shake Victoria itself, which has not moved in centuries."
The words sank into the smoke.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Clink!
Someone set their mug down softly.
Drip!
Rain slid down the glass.
The fire crackled.
Then someone coughed.
Another chuckled nervously.
"Ha, imagine it.
A boy of sixteen toppling the great houses.
Ridiculous."
But no one laughed too loudly after that.
The dice rolled again.
Mugs touched wood.
The night carried on.
But the rumor had been planted.
A Sixteen years old leading a criminal organization.
***